


Night In/Night Out

by okapi



Series: Your Extra Time and Your Kiss [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Femslash, Frottage, Genderswap, Johnlock (Established Relationship), Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Male!Anthea, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Mystrade (First Time), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1601384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wearing the same red lipstick, Fem!John has a night in, and Fem!Lestrade has a night out. PWP.</p><p>Big thanks to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/voxangelus/pseuds/voxangelus">voxangelus</a> the prompt of Maybelline <a href="http://www.maybelline.com/Products/Lip-Makeup/Lip-Color/color-sensational-lipcolor.aspx">Color Sensational Lip Color in Red Revival.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night In

“That,” said John, pushing a plate in front of Sherlock, who was hiding behind a morning newspaper, “is a very nice balance of complex carbohydrates, lean protein, and healthy fats. Fibre, vitamins, minerals.”

Sherlock put down the paper. Not at John’s words, which were quotidian enough, but at her tone. It was not the tone that John used to nag her to eat. It was precisely the tone—low, soft, curling like smoke under a shut door, with just a hint of strain—that John used to ask to _suck Sherlock’s clit_.

Sherlock stared at her, watching John’s pupils grow darker, watching the pulse at her partner’s throat quicken by two, then four, then eight beats a minute. These signs contrasted to John’s smile, which was her normal, everyday smile. And her appearance, which was also her normal, everyday jumper-and-jeans.

Sherlock put a fork of omelet in her mouth, just to see what would happen next. John relaxed slightly. Then, she got up and dumped her own empty plate and used cutlery in the sink. She returned to the table, saying in that same voice, “I’m going to pop ‘round to Lestrade’s later this morning. Then, maybe do some _shopping_.” The last word dropped like a coin in a well. Sherlock pushed back from the table, and John perched lightly on her outer thigh.

“We’ve plenty in,” whispered Sherlock, dropping her voice to match her lover’s. John nodded, openly watching Sherlock’s mouth as she formed words. “Take my card.”

John shook her head. “That would ruin the surprise.”

Sherlock smiled. She tapped John’s back, and John stood up. Then, Sherlock went to the bookcase and removed some bills from a copy of _Blackstone’s Statutes on Criminal Law_. Then, she went to the desk and found her card. She moved quickly back to her original seated position. John perched anew.

Sherlock pushed the bills and card into John’s hands. Then, she took John’s arm and drew a series of numbers on it with her fingertip. “If you need _more_ ,” she rattled.

John counted the money, laughing. “I feel quite _kept_.” Her eyes widened. She closed the space between them and kissed Sherlock softly. “Shan’t analyze that too much.” “Nor I,” replied Sherlock, “at my own reaction to the notion of _keeping_ you.” They kissed again. “Thank you,” said John, holding up the money. She got up and made for the stairs.

“Ah-hem,” John turned and cleared her throat. She nodded to the plate in front of Sherlock and in a very un-bedroom voice ordered, “ _EAT!_ ”

Sherlock narrowed her eyes. She made an angry show of biting the toast and chewing while John laughed up the stairs.

 

**Check your email. On your laptop. JW**

Sherlock flew to the desk. She’d kept herself amply busy, an experiment about acetones, little light reading about Crippen, flipping through a couple of cold case files that Lestrade had given her, some personal grooming, of course, but essentially the day had been about waiting for the night. For John’s signal.

_And here it was._

She opened the blank-subject email from John and clicked on the link provided. Then, John herself, shadowy and slightly fuzzy, was staring back at her. Blinking.

Sherlock smiled. All she had gotten in the way of clues was a John-shaped blur, arriving and quickly passing up the stairs with shopping bags—one from that French boutique, Sherlock noted with a licentious twitch of the lips—and some non-descript _bump-bumps_ of moving furniture heard from above. Sherlock had purposefully pulled the reins on her deductive skills in order to enhance the suspense, proving that, contrary to popular opinion, she _could_ delay gratification when sufficiently motivated.

“Thump if you can hear me, and see me,” said John. “I can’t see or hear you.”

 _Thump!_ Sherlock banged her fist on the desk.

“Enough light?” asked John. “Thump once for yes and twice for no.”

_Thump, thump!_

“Ok.” John disappeared. There was the sound of a match being struck and then the shadows lifted slightly. John’s face reappeared.

“Ok?”

_Thump!_

“I’m turning control of the camera over to you, so you can watch what you want to watch” said John with a sly wink, tapping some keys, “Don’t ask me how long it took me to figure this out. Much longer than the shopping.” A small screen popped up on Sherlock’s computer. Sherlock tapped the arrow keys; zooming in and out, experimenting with focus and angle.

“You always said you wanted to know what I look like when I’m alone. This is gilding the lily quite a bit,” John moved away from the camera, “but still…”

John stood facing the bed and, over her left shoulder, threw a pout at the camera. Sherlock zoomed out to see her entire figure.

And groaned.

“ _John!_ ”

She was a ‘50s pin-up, a sultry vision in black silk and lace: black feathery eyelashes— _how had she affixed those without Sherlock’s assistance?_ _So not the point, Sherlock_ —; black embroidered [lace corset](http://www.agentprovocateur.com/lingerie/corsets-and-basques/info/mercy-corset~black) with ribbons crisscrossing the back— _also curious, was her left arm much more flexible than Sherlock had assessed? Once again. So. Not. The. Point_ —; tiny black lace knickers, suspenders and stockings; and black high-heeled shoes. Her skin was a creamy white, except for the scar— _Fuck_ , _how Sherlock loved that scar_ ; she licked her lips as it came into view. John’s hair was a brassy Marilyn Monroe blonde in soft, short waves, but Sherlock’s eyes were drawn again and again back to her lips, plump and pursed and a vibrant red.

_Red!_

Here was John, _her_ John, of the hideous, misshapen, how-can-so-many-kinds-of-beige-exist jumpers and the serviceable underpants, looking like a siren, looking— _though Sherlock hated the word_ —so very, very, delectably, edibly, lusciously _femme_.

“Ready?” flirted John, throwing her a cherry kiss.

_Thump!_

John lay down on the bed on her side, her head on a pillow, and her bottom arm outstretched, hand reaching toward the camera. From the camera’s position, it was as if Sherlock were lying beside John. She touched John’s hand on the screen and smiled tenderly.

Then, John slowly closed eyes and whispered, “I’m going to try to forget that you’re there. Observer bias, and what not.”

Sherlock leaned closer to the screen and watched John’s shallow breathing against unyielding fabric. She panned down her body as she lifted her top knee and rotated her hips into the bed. A thin strip of black knicker and the suspender straps cut into the swell of John’s buttocks as she circled her hips in figure eights against the bed. Sherlock licked her lips. She moved back to John’s face. She was leaning up on her elbows; eyes still closed. Her delightfully crimson lips released short faint grunts as her torso shifted. She rose up higher and ground her pelvis deeper into the mattress.

“Oh, uh, uh.”

And that was almost the end of the spectacle because it took all of Sherlock’s willpower not to race up the stairs and answer the call of John’s frustration. She knew half a dozen proven—and twice as many unproven—ways to ease John past this point.

_She’d give her twenty seconds, no ten._

Then, a pillow came into view.

“Mount it,” said Sherlock. “That’s a girl.”

John shifted on top of the pillow, opened her legs slightly, and resumed her grinding. Still propped on her elbows, she dropped her head, her tousled blonde waves framing her face, her eyelashes hanging like lace fans. She opened her ruby lips and sighed.

“Oh, _Sherlock!_ ”

John reached a hand back, awkwardly grasping at air.

_She’s reaching for me. Even when she’s alone, she reaches for me._

Sherlock slumped at the wave of pure _want_ —the ratio of passion to possession would go unanalyzed—that washed over her. “I’m here,” she croaked. She leaned back in the chair, unbuttoned her trousers and slipped a hand atop her damp knickers. Her thumb made idle passes around her clit, but Sherlock forgot about her hand, forgot about _transport_ , or the existence of anything but John’s pink tongue tracing her scarlet lips, and she moaned,

“Sherlock, I need _more_.”

Sherlock panned the camera wide and watched John pull her knickers down until they were a black string laced around the tops of her thighs, then she pressed into the pillow again. Sherlock watched her gluteal muscle tighten under the black suspenders.

“Yeah, yeah, oh God, _Sherlock_. My pussy, it needs more. More….”

“Friction,” finished Sherlock. “Wider,” she coached. It was a whisper, but John opened her legs wider, stretching the knickers to almost-snapping and pulled one knee under her for leverage.

“Oh, God, that’s better.” Now John was rubbing her hips into the pillow with swift up-and-down strokes. “Been thinking about you all day. Ugh. Sherlock. So wet, so wet for you. Oh, oh, oh. Yes, yes, Holy Mother of God, _yes!_ ”

Sherlock abandoned her own rubbing. _Useless distraction._ She focused on John’s hands that were clenching and unclenching the sheet in time to her whimpers. Sherlock’s free hand moved in sympathy. She ached to be mounting John, licking and biting her neck, feeling the vibrations of John’s cries through her skin, hearing first-hand that sweet little ‘yes’—from their first to their last days as lovers it would always been one of surprise and relief—when John’s climax was near.

“Sherlock, yes, yes, _yes_!” It was a near-laugh, and Sherlock smiled. She watched John’s hips make slow, deep thrusts into the pillow. “So sweet, so _good_.” With one last quiet squeal, John collapsed. She quickly turned to the side. She bit the edge of the pillow and winked at the camera.

“Not as nice as your neck,” she flirted. She let go of the pillow and Sherlock turned the camera eye to see John’s pubic hair and the damp stain on the pillow.

_That pillowcase will be appropriated. Surreptitiously. Prior to laundry day._

When she moved back to John’s face, she was staring open-eyed at her, with arm outstretched as in the beginning.

“Yours,” said John thickly, puckering her lips in a kiss.

“Mine,” answered Sherlock, touching the screen and then her own lips.

 

 

After some moments, John said, “I’m coming down,” and the screen went blank.

Sherlock slammed the laptop closed and put it aside.

_Thunk! Th-thunk! Th-Thunk!_

She heard the distinctive patterns of someone not accustomed to wearing high heels coming down stairs in them. She met John at the bottom of the stairs; she was wrapped in a short, silk robe. When she was near enough, Sherlock wrapped her arms around John’s waist and lifted her the rest of the way down. John giggled.

John broke away from her embrace and slowly untied and opened the robe with a salacious smile. She raised an eyebrow and did a measured pirouette, fluttering her black butterfly eyelashes. Sherlock looked her up and down.

And because it was not early days for our ladies, Sherlock did not have to consciously remember to praise the garment, the performance, the ensemble, the trappings— _anything_ but the woman herself.

“ _This_ ,” she growled, indicating the corset, “is positively sinful. And your demonstration was quite interesting _, enlightening_ even. But _this_ is…” Sherlock took her thumb and pulled John’s bottom lip down.

“The cherry on top?” supplied John with a grin.

“Something like that,” said Sherlock and silenced her with a hard kiss. John wrapped her arms around Sherlock and leaned up into her body. Sherlock curled her hands around John’s waist and then crept lower to the hem of the robe, lifting it up. John stopped her tongue’s exploration of Sherlock’s mouth just long enough to mumble, “Knickers were done for,” against Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock groaned and cupped her buttocks under the suspender straps.

“How ‘bout a dance?” suggested Sherlock. John’s eyes lit, then darkened. “Sherlock, I can barely stay upright in these stilts. Much less twirl you around.” She braced her weight against Sherlock and lifted one foot. Sherlock kissed her forehead.

“I’ll lead…”

And that was one of the secret anomalies of 221B, that despite Sherlock’s stature, her superior musicality and her complete and thorough intellectual comprehension of the role, Sherlock never, _ever_ , led on the dance floor. Why, neither woman ever articulated precisely, but it was as hard and fast domiciliary rule as who made the tea and who paid the taxi driver.

With that known, John’s ensuing expression of glee mixed with trepidation is better understood. Sherlock planted a quick peck on John’s lips, steadied her, and moved to the laptop.

Suddenly, the flat was flooded with soulful crooning. John smiled as Sherlock returned. And Sherlock made it be known that her definition of _leading_ was essentially holding John tight, kissing her soundly, and swaying in a small circle to the bluesy lament of sad women singing sad songs about missing their lover men and drinking again and being down and out.

About the time Etta James was asking her lover to bring out the gypsy in her, Sherlock reached between John’s legs and felt the wetness there.

“Oh, God, yes, Sherlock, _play with me_ ,” whispered John against Sherlock’s lips that by now were as smudged red as John’s.

And then all pretense of dancing was abandoned in favor of upright fondling with musical accompaniment. Sherlock traced John’s folds, petted hair matted damp, and brushed a slow, calculating thumb up and down and around—and around and around—because that’s what made John moan the loudest. She teased until John was frantically clawing at Sherlock’s back and neck, trying essential to climb her. Like a tree. And in the treacherous high-heeled shoes, it was a clumsy effort bordering on perilous.

“ _Let me rut_ ,” begged John, cupping Sherlock’s head and panting into her mouth.

“Yes, then, I’m going to lick you clean, carry you to my bed, and fuck myself senseless on you.”

“Yes, yes, yes, I want to fuck all night, wake up to your tongue inside me,” gasped John. And _there_ was an image that flashed like a bulb in Sherlock’s brain, whiting out all others for an instant, but she carefully filed it under ‘For later’ in her Mind Palace. Sherlock flipped the desk chair, sat, and slotted John against her thigh. John immediately began to thrust, shaking off the robe. Sherlock ran her hands up and down the hourglass figure. She tugged at the top buttons of her blouse, pulling it to one side, offering John her neck. John licked at her favorite spot.

Sherlock groaned.

“ _John!_ ”

And by the time Bessie Smith was singing about jelly rolls and kitchen men, teeth were sinking into skin. Sherlock’s vise grip on John’s arse loosened and she massaged the flesh. John nuzzled gently at Sherlock’s neck and mewled. Sherlock stroked John’s cheek with her knuckles and kissed her.

“Mine.”

“Yours.”

“On the desk.”

John’s eyes gleamed. She made to sit on the edge of the desk, but Sherlock stopped her.

“Hands and knees,” Sherlock corrected. John raised an eyebrow but turned and gingerly crawled into the position. She spread her knees and arched her back. Sherlock stood for a moment, letting the image of her mate, her Beloved dolled up like a vixen, open and vulnerable, offering her sex willingly, wantonly, sear into her mind. Then, Sherlock spread her folds and lapped, wanting to know, to memorize, to analyze her lover’s taste and scent heavy with want and release.

“Oh, oh, oh, Sherlock, taste me, _yes_.” John pushed back gently against Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock held John’s legs steady, but never ceased her licking and probing. Sherlock’s tongue slowed. She pressed a kiss to John’s core and wiped her face against the curve of her buttock as she rose.

“Turn,” she ordered. John turned and sat on the desk. Sherlock squatted and put John’s legs around her shoulders. She wanted to launch her into the stratosphere, like a rocket, like a goddess creating a constellation in the sky.

“No, Sherlock,” said John, “We are not acrobats. You’ll hurt yourself. You’ll drop me and crack me like an egg.”

Sherlock stopped and looked up at her. “I will _never_ drop you. _Ever."_ It was a promise, a vow, a troth. Then, she added dryly, "Don’t hit your head on the doorway.”

With that, she lifted John in the air, her nose buried in John’s crotch. John squealed. One of John’s hands clung to the back of Sherlock’s head and the other found purchase against the ceiling. It was no small feat, managing the doorways and the light fixtures, but somehow—as Billie Holiday was singing good morning to heartache—they reached Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock tossed John on the bed. It made an ominous crack, but she bounced twice, laughing.

“That has got to be the third most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“My turn,” grinned Sherlock, advancing on her, licking her red lips like a beast at kill.

“Oh, _God_ , yes.”


	2. Interlude: the Morning before the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Lestrade talk about the night ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically this is just a little bit of character development with Lestrade (figuring out who she is and how she might fit with Mycroft) and a chance to bring back Male!Anthea, whom I have loved since [Morning Dress](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1125896/chapters/2269971). 
> 
> If you're just here for the Mystrade sex, it'll be next chapter.

Lestrade opened the door, blinked, and groaned.

“Pro-per date, pro-per date, Greggie’s got a pro-per date!” sang John as she eased passed her friend.

“It’s way too early to be chipper,” growled Lestrade.

“It’s 10:30, love.”

“Which, on my day off, is very early. Tea?”

“No! No time for chatting. This is serious business. We need coffee. I’ll make it. Drinks and dancing: that is a proper date. So, what are you going to _wear_?” John made her way to the kitchen.

“I dunno,” sighed Lestrade, rubbing her face.

John hummed her little tune while she made coffee and handed Lestrade a cup.

“Ta,” said Lestrade.

“Alright, to the closet.”

They went to the bedroom. Lestrade opened her closet.

John sipped her coffee. “So, these,” she said with a sweeping hand to the right, “are your Detective Inspector clothes.”

“Yes.”

“And these are your real clothes.” She pointed to a small section on the left.

“Yes.”

“Alright, show me what you got.” John sat down on the bed. She leaned back and put her cup on the small bedside table.

“This one?” asked Lestrade, holding up a dress.

“No. Next.”

“This one?” Lestrade pulled out another.

“No. Next.”

“You’re very picky for a woman who doesn’t wear dresses.”

“I know…” John leaned back to retrieve her cup; she looked down and laughed. “Ho, ho, HO! Found your porn.” She pulled out a magazine from beneath the bed.

“Give me that!”

“Oh my God! _The English Home!_ _House and Garden!_ Please tell me that you don’t wank to ottomans and upholstery. Because that would be too precious!”

Lestrade beat John with a pillow as she cackled.

“At least I don’t have a subscription to _Cunts & Clits Monthly_ like you do, you pervert!”

“Hey, hey, I am a bisexual. It’s _Cunts & Clits & Cocks Monthly_!” cried John, deflecting the blows.

“That doesn’t exist,” countered Lestrade, grinning.

“I know, pity that, I would order a lifetime subscription if I weren’t positive that Sherlock would set it on fire.”

“No, no, I mean, being bisexual doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, here we go!” laughed John. “I can’t possibly be attracted to men and women at the same time.”

“Precisely.”

“And you’d have to see me, having sex simultaneously with a man and a woman—and enjoying it to the same degree—to believe it exists.”

“Exactly,” joked Lestrade. “It’s like that cat in the box. And we,” she added theatrically, “of the Coven of Pure-Blooded Dykes got together and decided that you must choose.”

“Well, I choose _Sherlock_. And I don’t give a Schrödinger’s fuck _what_ she is. And you might want to re-consider your stance on Muggles since you’ll be cheek-to-cheek tonight with a woman who was married to a man for fifteen years.”

Lestrade shrugged, “Fair point.”

They both got up and looked at the open closet.

“But something tells me that her being married to a man is a lot like this,” John pointed to the right side of the closet. “You don’t love these clothes. They’re a uniform.”

Lestrade said quietly, “I don’t mind them. Nobody is going to take you seriously if….”

“Well, tonight,” interrupted John, “I think you should unleash the krakens.” She pointed with her chin to Lestrade’s chest and made big-bug eyes.

“Did you just call my breasts sea monsters?”

“Rowr!”

“You are high.”

John started digging through the far left side of the closet. “Some of these still have the plastic on them from dry cleaning. From three years ago!”

“The ladies haven’t exactly been lining up, John.”

“This is it. This one,” said John, pulling out a black sheath.

“That’s five years old.”

“So? It’s clean, I think,” John sniffed. “Yes, classic, low-cut for your sea monsters, form-fitting for your lovely bottom, but you can move in it—should the British Government decide to dip you.” John twirled around a circle and dipped the dress.

“Not going to work.”

“Why not?”

“Five years, the ravages of time, love,” Lestrade made a gesture toward her hips. “I can’t get in it now.”

“Pshaw!” John held it up to Lestrade’s body. “Try it on!”

“You’re so stubborn. Okay, I’ll prove it to you.”

Some minutes later, both women were grunting.

“ _Suck it in, Detective Inspector!_ ”

“ _Fuck you, Doctor! I am!_ ”

John was trying to zip the dress in the back.

“You only have a little bit more to go! It looks great—otherwise!”

Lestrade huffed.

“I don’t want to force it;” said John, “then the seams might pop.”

“Thanks,” said Lestrade dryly, “Can we start drinking now?” She looked at the clock.

John stared at her friend’s back.

“There’s a solution for this. I’m just not sure where to find it. Or the best kind.”

“We could google it?” suggested Lestrade.

“We’ve got something better than google, when it comes to this stuff.”

 

 

“Office of Strategic Planning and Development. How may I help you?”

“Anthea!”

“Dr. Watson! How are you?”

“Good. And you?”

“Splendid, thank you for asking. I am afraid Ms. Holmes is in a meeting at the moment. May I take a message?”

“I’m calling for you, for your help.”

“Hold, please.”

_Click, click, click._

“That’s better. What do you need?”

“I’m wondering if my fairy godfather still has some dust left in his wand.”

“I’ve been told by reliable sources my wand is both magical and inexhaustible. I can give you references if you require,” he added.

“Cheeky, cheeky. I bet you have. Say, it isn’t for me, it’s for a friend…”

“ _Of course_. What does your _friend_ need?”

A few minutes and a few texts later, Anthea looked up. Mycroft was staring at him from the doorway of her office.

“A word, please,” she said.

 

 

“See, it fits.” John said from behind Lestrade.

“Yeah, it does.” She was looking in the mirror. “I can’t breathe under these layers of industrial spandex, but I look good.” She turned sideways. “I’m mortified that you found this place and this thing from Mycroft’s PA, but I can’t argue with the results.”

“He signed the John Watson Official Secrets Act. Alright, first mission accomplished. Now, I want to get something nice to wear for Sherlock tonight.”

 

 

John and Lestrade browsed through adjacent racks of undergarments.

“If I have to be squeezed like a sausage in a casing tonight, then so should you. How about this?” Lestrade held up a black lace corset.

John looked up. “That’s sort of what I was thinking.”

“There’s no price. Hold on.”

Lestrade returned.

“Nevermind.”

“What?”

“It’s £690!”

John took out her wallet and showed Lestrade the bills inside.

“Holy Fuck!”

“Yeah. Sherlock gave it to me this morning. Plus her card if I needed more.”

The two women stared at each other.

“Is that normal?” asked Lestrade.

“No. But I know she wouldn’t even blink at me buying that thing,” said John, indicating the corset.

“And you’re okay with the difference? Between you two? I mean, that jumper looks about, what, £5.”

“Hey, I _like_ my jumper!” replied John. She shrugged. “I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t come up, especially when we are having a really nasty fight…but Sherlock walks around entitled mostly because of her brain, not her bank account.”

Lestrade shook her head slowly.

John went on, “I’m not sure how the Holmes wealth works exactly, but whether by default or design, Sherlock lives on the interest. Mycroft? Mycroft invests the _capital_.”

“ _Jesus Christ. What am I doing?_ ” said Lestrade under her breath.

“Consider this, even if it doesn’t work out, maybe you’ll walk away with some tips for growing your pension.”

“You mean my pension from walking a beat in Outer Mongolia, which is where she can have me transferred?”

“You’ve got the upper hand, love, whether you realize it or not. Try to forget about the power and the money and just figure out if you _like_ her.”

“I already like her. Even though she’s out of my league in a thousand ways, I feel sort of… _drawn_ to her. Does that make sense?”

John nodded. “To me? Perfect sense. Alright. Lipstick?”

They looked at each other and then looked at the garments in their hands. They spoke in unison.

“Red.”

 

 

 


	3. Night Out, Part 1

“Thank you. I had a good time. No surprise that you’re a good dancer,” Lestrade said. “You know I raided that place not too long ago—on a tip from Sherlock, [exotic pet smuggling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1276990/chapters/2642239)—but I wouldn't have recognized it by the interior at all.”

“It’s come under new, much more _open-minded_ management recently,” said Mycroft. Rain was streaking the windows of the car.

“Yeah, very nice. Nobody gave us a second glance.”

Mycroft wore a dark tailored suit, matching waistcoat, white shirt and red tie. She took Lestrade’s hand in hers and kissed the top of it. “On the contrary, quite a few glances were thrown your way. What is this colour called?” She brushed Lestrade’s bottom lip with her thumb.

“Red Revival.” Lestrade smiled and gave a theatrical pout. The pair shifted a little closer to each other in the leather seats.

Then, the car stopped.

“So…maybe we can do it again...sometime?”

“I look forward to it. Allow me.”

Mycroft got out and opened her umbrella. Then, she moved around the car and opened the door for Lestrade, extending her hand. Lestrade took it and stepped carefully out of the car. Mycroft gave a nod to the driver.

They reached the flat door, and Lestrade fumbled with her keys, dropping them. Mycroft hung her umbrella on the doorknob and bent to pick up the keys.

“Thanks…Umm.”

Mycroft pressed a chaste kiss to Lestrade’s lips.

“Until next time,” said Mycroft softly.

“Yes.”

Lestrade watched her turn and get back on the lift. They smiled mildly at each other as the lift doors closed. Then, Lestrade closed her eyes and slumped back against the door.

“Slow is fine. Slow is good. Slow is what rationale, mature adults do,” she mumbled.

Then, she saw the umbrella.

And the lift doors opened again.

“I’m afraid…”

Lestrade launched herself at Mycroft. Mycroft stiffened and pulled away. Lestrade felt nausea-like waves of rejection and embarrassment run through her. She blushed and swallowed hard and began to stammer. Mycroft put a finger to her lips and whispered.

“It would be prudent to take any further activity indoors.”

Lestrade stared at her.

“You’re watching the flat?”

“Please,” said Mycroft, with a seriousness that stopped Lestrade’s next thought. Lestrade turned and unlocked the door.

In the _thunk-click!_ of the door closing and locking, Mycroft had Lestrade pressed against the interior wall, kissing her without inhibition.

As on the dance floor earlier that evening, Mycroft was consummate at anticipating Lestrade's movements. With a firm arm around her waist, she anticipated how Lestrade’s knees would buckle when the wet heat of their mouths met. She bent her body to Lestrade’s, anticipating the hands that curled up around her neck, then twined in her short hair, pulling her closer. She anticipated Lestrade’s body melting against hers and tilted her head slightly, slotting their lips deftly and then opening hers at the swipe of Lestrade’s tongue against her lower lip. Two tongues danced as bodies had, first hesitantly and then with greater confidence and desire. Finally, Mycroft pulled away slowly and nuzzled behind Lestrade’s ear. She said in a low voice,

“Do not mistake caution for indifference. _Ever_.”

Lestrade sighed and slumped harder against Mycroft’s arm and the door. She opened her eyes suddenly.

“So John was right. You _are_ watching the flat.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to sigh.

“Dr. Watson has a penchant for painting me in a sinister light.”

“Yeah, well,” Lestrade said with a smile, “kidnap a girl, take her to an abandoned warehouse, threaten her, _then_ try to bribe her, and that might happen. Intimidating.”

“She wasn’t intimidated. Neither were you, long ago.”

“Ha! You haven’t answered my question. _Are_ you watching?”

Mycroft wore a defeated expression. “Watching over?” she suggested.

“Since?”

“Your association with Sherlock has always made it of strategic interest. Lately, that interest has taken on a heightened, more _personal_ nature.” She traced Lestrade's lips with a fingertip. Lestrade softened.

“Just outside?”

Mycroft nodded. She brushed a thumb across Lestrade’s temple and bent to kiss her softly. Lestrade chased Mycroft’s lips, and the kiss went on for many heartbeats.

Mycroft murmured into her forehead. “What were your plans for the remainder of the evening?”

Lestrade nosed against Mycroft’s jaw and slurred, “Dunno. Nightcap. Think of you. Rub myself senseless. Sleep.”

“Sounds enchanting. Care for some company?”

“Love some.” She pushed out of Mycroft’s arms. She toed off her shoes at the entrance and flipped on a lamp beside the sofa. “Please, make yourself at home. Such a home that it is. What’s your poison?”

Mycroft looked out the window at the relentless rain. “It’s a dreary night. I could make us something warm,” she offered.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and smiled.

“Be my guest,” she waved toward the kitchen, “You’ll find the liquor cabinet is much better stocked than the larder.”

“I’ll improvise,” said Mycroft as she removed her jacket. Lestrade took it and hung it up in the coat closet.

When she turned back, Mycroft’s fingers were hovering at the button of her waistcoat. Lestrade stared, fascinated at this knight actually removing a piece of her armour. She closed the distance between them and put her fingers next to Mycroft’s. In truth, she was more impeding the process than aiding it, but neither seemed to mind as the buttons came undone one by one, and Lestrade slipped the fabric from Mycroft’s shoulders.

And, unbeknownst to either at the time, this little ritual was one that would never grow old.

When Lestrade turned back from hanging up the garment, Mycroft was gone, with loosen tie and rolled-up shirt sleeves, opening cabinets and drawers. Some minutes later, she was carefully stirring a dark liquid in a small pot on the stove.

”So dancing, cooking…” said Lestrade. She was sitting on the counter, not hiding her delight at the scene.

“We do have a odd assortment of positively Victorian skills,” Mycroft admitted. “Sherlock would say that cooking is only chemistry. But, science for science’s sake has never interested me,” she nodded to the pot, “it’s the application of knowledge that is interesting. The chemistry of cooking. The psychology of negotiation. The economics of…Be careful.” She poured the liquid into two mugs beside Lestrade.

“Smells good,” said Lestrade holding the cup to her nose. “Shall we repair to the…,” she looked over her shoulder at the tiny space, “ _everything_ …room.”

“By all means.”

 

Lestrade’s mug was half empty when she finally felt emboldened enough to say,

“Do you always look like this at the end of the day?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Sexy as hell.”

Mycroft gave a soft, surprised laugh and shook her head. “No day in recent memory has ended as delightfully as this one, so, no. You flatter me—and yourself.” She took Lestrade’s mug and put it and her own on a small table beside the sofa. “Come here.” Lestrade crawled into her lap. Mycroft continued, “I would like to respond to your… _candor_ …with my own. I hope you will not find offense at the beginning of my statement. I could not help but observe that beneath this alluring,” she ran her hand down Lestrade’s side, from shoulder to waist to hip and then rested it on Lestrade’s knee, “frock, you are wearing a _formidable_ undergarment.”

Lestrade burst into laughter. Then, she shrugged. “The dress is old, so’s its owner. It was the only way to put one in the other.”

Mycroft curled her arms around Lestrade and whispered in her ear, “And since I made that observation earlier this evening, I have had a persistent, relentless, nagging wish—call it a fantasy, if you’d like—to _cut you out of it_.”

Lestrade sat up quickly and stared into Mycroft’s eyes, blown dark with a want that was a reflection of her own.

A wide grin broke across her face.

“I have a blade that will do the job quite nicely.”

Lestrade howled with laughter at Mycroft—however briefly—rendered speechless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working a couple of kinks out (heh, heh). Mystrade sexytimes to come.


	4. Night Out, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mystrade, first time.

Lestrade returned with an emerald dressing gown in one hand, which she tossed on the back of the sofa, and a small pocket knife in the other. She pulled out the blade.

“My grandfather’s.”

The wooden handle was smooth with wear, but the writing was still legible.

“Gregory,” said Mycroft. Then, she framed Lestrade’s head with her hands and kissed her slowly.

“Gregory,” she purred.

Lestrade shivered. “Only you could make a nickname sound pretentious _and_ obscene.”

“It _is_ a gift,” Mycroft said wryly. “Would you prefer that I call you Mary Margaret?”

“Not if you want to get me out of this dress,” warned Lestrade. “And Greg’s out the question?”

Mycroft made a face.

“Alright. But Lestrade when the cameras are watching.”

“Detective Inspector?”

“What if I lose my job?”

“I would have to lose mine first. Highly unlikely.”

“Deal.”

Mycroft took the blade and grasped Lestrade’s jaw with her free hand, tugging her close for a velvet kiss.

“Now get me out of this thing,” Lestrade growled.

“In this moment, it is my singular desire,” replied Mycroft. Lestrade turned and sat back in Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft drew down the zipper of the dress and planted a kiss between the exposed shoulder blades. Lestrade stood up and peeled off the dress, kicking it away.

The undergarment was beige with an industrial nylon sheen; it wrapped her in a python grip from shoulder to mid-thigh. Lestrade gave a wicked smile and stretched out along the sofa. Mycroft followed her and cut the two shoulder straps. She frowned at the red welts that were carved into Lestrade’s skin. Then, she slid the blade carefully alongside one seam and, like the village butcher, quickly and efficiently slit the side of the garment from thigh to arm pit.

Lestrade laughed and exclaimed, “Mother of God, yes!” as she pulled the garment away and reached for the dressing gown. She wrapped herself loosely in the green silk and breathed deeply as she heard the knife slide under the sofa.

Mycroft was still frowning.

“No, no, no.” She rubbed the red lines that cut across Lestrade’s thighs. What followed was a tender assault that left Lestrade trembling. Mycroft traced every mark that the garment had inflicted on her skin with fingers and lips and tongue. She massaged and licked and smoothed until Lestrade was clinging to her and panting.

“Mycroft, _Jesus Christ!_ ” And then it seemed as if Mycroft was touching her _everywhere_. And Lestrade knew everything, the sounds she made, the flavour of her skin, her scent, was all being recorded and catalogued and processed by the supercomputer that was Mycroft’s brain, but she just didn’t give damn because it felt _so good_. She said as much, slightly incoherently.

“Archive my whole fucking body in your bloody Mind Palace, I don’t care, _just don’t stop_.”

Mycroft drew the dressing gown away and chuckled. She rubbed Lestrade’s nipples with her thumbs until the dark pink buds pebbled. Then, she sucked each one in turn with a warm, wet mouth. Lestrade writhed against her.

“Palaces are for _princesses!_ ” Mycroft rumbled as she brushed the swell of Lestrade’s breast against her cheek. She trailed kisses down Lestrade’s side.

“So does that make you…uh…Oh, oh, _oh_ ,” huffed Lestrade as Mycroft outlined the crest of her hip with her tongue, “…uh… _queen? Or king?_ ”

“Kingmakers live a lot longer—and better—than kings,” she whispered.

Lestrade opened her eyes at this, but was immediately distracted by the contrast, Mycroft was still dressed—Windsor knot still hanging on—and here she was, starkers, moaning like a bloody…

“Stop thinking,” said Mycroft.

Lestrade pushed at Mycroft and put a tiny bit of distance between them. “I don’t know the rules, what I can and can’t…” Lestrade sighed frustratedly and looked up at Mycroft. “What do you _want?!_ ” she asked desperately.

And for an instant, she saw Mycroft as Mycroft saw her. And Lestrade recalled a line from Corinthians— _for now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face_ —and, even if she had wanted to, she could not disguise the wonder in her voice.

“You are _beautiful_.”

She could not name all the emotions that crossed Mycroft’s face as she reached out and touched her cheek. But, suddenly, Mycroft’s mouth was claiming hers, passionately, possessively, almost brutally, and Lestrade was falling back on the sofa and Mycroft’s weight was on her, pinning her. Instinctively, Lestrade locked her legs around Mycroft’s waist and arched up into her. When Lestrade opened her eyes, Mycroft was over her and, it was clear that the veil was in place again.

“I want to watch you. To learn so that…”

“ _Application of knowledge_?” kidded Lestrade. She reached up for a sloppy, rough kiss.

Mycroft’s eyes twinkled. “Precisely.”

“Bedroom.”

 

While Lestrade hastily threw the duvet off her bed, Mycroft took off her shoes, sock, belt, and tie. She ensconced herself among the pillows at the head of the bed.

Lestrade sat on her knees in the middle of the bed, facing her.

“Close your eyes, and show me everything you like,” said Mycroft.

“You like watching?” Lestrade asked. She raised her arms over her head and then brought them down, crossing them, rubbing her shoulders and upper arms. She turned her head to brush one shoulder with her chin and press a half kiss to her skin.

“Yes. Shoulders. Neck, too?”

“Hmmm. Like to watch me play?” Lestrade cupped both breasts in her hands; she lifted the weighted flesh as if in offering.

“Yes. You are _gorgeous_ ,” Mycroft moaned as Lestrade toyed with her nipples.

“Almost all the time, I have to hide…”

“Don’t hide _anything_. I want _all_ of it. You like it slow.” The last wasn’t a question.

Lestrade’s hands traveled down and up her stomach and hips and buttocks. “Hmmm,” she nodded, “ _Slow._ When I’m not too tired or rushed, I draw it out as long as possible. _Soft._ See enough pain with the job. It’s got no place here.”

Mycroft grunted. Lestrade put a hand between her legs. Then, she opened her eyes and reached the hand forward. She traced Mycroft’s lips with a wet finger. Mycroft took Lestrade’s finger in her mouth and sucked.

Lestrade locked eyes with her.

“ _Show me_ ,” whispered Mycroft as she threw half the pillows in a pile at the other end of the bed. Lestrade leaned back on them and opened her legs.

Lestrade wasn’t sure what was fueling her desire more, her own hand or Mycroft’s rapt expression as she teased her clit and traced her folds and probed her cunt with one finger, and then two. Lestrade thrust her fingers gently and arched her hips. She twisted a little to the left and then to the right. She mewled.

And then, Mycroft’s hand was there. She rolled beside Lestrade and teased her entrance with fingertips while she kissed her neck and shoulders. “You magnificent creature,” she murmured. She pushed two fingers into Lestrade slowly. “Like this?’

“Yes, yes, _yes!_ ”’ Lestrade removed her own fingers and gave herself up to Mycroft’s. She clutched the sheets so tightly she heard the fabric rip.

Mycroft pumped two, then three fingers in and out of Lestrade, with unhurried, deliberate thrusts. Lestrade arched her hips off the bed and twisted sharply toward Mycroft. She gripped her shoulders and pulled her closer. “I want to feel you on me.” Mycroft pressed her full body against Lestrade’s. Lestrade groaned. “Yes. Like that. _Full. Taken_.” Mycroft brushed Lestrade’s clit lightly with her thumb. “Oh, _oh!_ ” They breathed into each other’s mouths with loud sighs. Mycroft shifted slightly, and then there were more thrusts and teasing until Lestrade clenched tightly around Mycroft’s fingers and came with her name on her lips. When Lestrade opened her eyes, Mycroft was staring at her; she removed her hand, licking her fingers.

Lestrade relaxed momentarily and then quickly said, “Anything, anything, just let me do _something_. I know it’s selfish to ask, Not Good, so Not Good. I shouldn’t ask, but God, help me, I’m _asking_.”

She looked up with dazed eyes and then plaintively nuzzled at her neck. “ _Please_ , Mycroft,” she pleaded and clawed feebly at Mycroft’s back through the fabric of her shirt.

“What do you _like_ to do? Most, best,” Mycroft gasped.

“Taste,” whispered Lestrade. A heavy silence descended in the space between them. Both women held their breath.

Then, Mycroft groaned loudly as if something in her was snapping loose. And then, she shoved her trousers and pants to her knees, and Lestrade’s mouth was on her, licking and sucking and _tasting_.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

It was the first time Lestrade ever heard her swear. And, in that instant, Lestrade was reduced to two driving desires: the first, to, with ever fibre of her being, give this woman the sum total of all pleasure possible and the second, to memorize ever trace of her because this moment might be as ephemeral and unique as it was beautiful.

Her tongue was pressed deep into Mycroft when she heard, over the roar of her own blood,

“Gregory, stop!”

And Lestrade stopped. She pulled off and sat up and quickly moved to the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” Mycroft covered Lestrade’s lips with her own. Lestrade tried to pull away but strong arms held her close. Mycroft whispered fiercely in her ear, “Hush! It’s okay. It’s so much more than okay. I want it. I want you. But, for now, that’s enough.”

They locked eyes for a long time. Then, when Lestrade’s breathing had slowed, Mycroft said,

“Sleep.”

“Stay?” Lestrade winced at her own voice.

Mycroft nuzzled and licked at her shoulder. “For a while. Sleep, gorgeous. _Please_.”

Lestrade turned away and set the sheet and duvet to rights while Mycroft shucked her trousers and shirt. Lestrade did not look back when she felt Mycroft’s body spoon against hers. She squeezed the hand that snaked around her waist and gave a quiet, contented noise when a nose nuzzled against her ear. Lestrade mistakenly thought she would be awake for a long time.

 

Lestrade felt a brush of lips on her cheek. She opened her eyes. It was still dark, but she could see Mycroft fully dressed, leaning over her.

They smiled at each other, and Lestrade sat up and hugged the sheet around her.

“Don’t say anything. I’ve been on your side of the bed more times than I can count. Wait…” she muttered, “that makes me sound like a slag…which I am, sort of,...well, used to be…but I don’t _have_ to be…oh, hell, I’m going to stop talking now before I ruin it.” She cringed.

Mycroft cupped her cheek and kissed her lips tenderly.

“Until next time.”

“Yes.”

When Lestrade heard the front door close, she fell back on the bed, saying to the empty flat, “But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.”

Thirty-six hours later, Lestrade shook the water from her raincoat as the lift doors opened. She raised her eyebrows at the parcel, but took it inside and removed the simple red ribbon and brown paper. A look of surprise lit her face when she opened the box.

“Ha! 1200 count sheets! And a copy of _Ideal Home!_ ”

She smiled.

 

 

“So you see, while it’s a sizable short-term loss, it would set you up for a much, more advantageous position in about six months…” Mycroft looked up from the telephone to see Anthea standing in the doorway. He slipped a scrap of paper on the desk and disappeared.

**#3!**

Mycroft said hastily, “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment…” She put the telephone on hold and made a few clicks on her computer screen. The image of the Lestrade standing in front of her door, back to the camera, popped up. Without turning, Lestrade went inside and shut the door.

Mycroft leaned in close and read, scrawled across the door in red lipstick.

**THANK YOU**

Mycroft touched the screen at lip print that had been pressed to the door below the words, and then touched her own lips.

“You’re welcome.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still finding my way with these two, so thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Lestrade is quoting Luke 2:19 at the end. Have always loved the trope of using CCTV to talk to Mycroft since I read the wonderful fic [Rules and Exceptions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/947738).


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